Strawberry Fields Forever
by GoldenSilvers
Summary: In an address to England, America reflects upon an interesting comparison he discovers in the science lab. Yes. Chem!USUKs because I can 8D Rated Teen for language.


Have I ever mentioned to you that I really love science? Because I do.

Although I've probably told you at least a million times. Like how much I like soda. Or how many bags of chips I can eat in a minute.

But you know, to be fair it's really hard to tell when all you get is an "insert British insult here." So I end up repeating myself anyways just to be sure that you're listening to me.

Because I really want you to listen to me. I like it when you do. So just for one moment, let me tell you something about science.

I was in the lab other day, which is pretty much one of the only things I can keep clean. I know you're more of a English freak because well, you ARE British. But you're a neat freak too. I'll show you sometime. You'll really like it. It's got these shiny black counter-tops and a lot of weird-smelling shit that would probably remind you about your cooking.

… I was kidding about that last part. Sort of. Not the point, though. Though butyric acid's pretty damn close to whatever I'm supposed to call that sausage thing you served me last time. Yeah. That was awful.

As I said, not the point. Though you're probably getting pissed and ranting about all that "mumsie" stuff you bring up every time someone mentions your cooking, but I know if I talk long enough and loud enough with an even louder and more annoying voice you'll pay attention to me again. Eventually.

So I was in the lab, right? So I put on my goggles. Lab goggles, who knows if you call them something else, and this really awesome Avengers apron my brother got for me. It's really really cool, okay?

So. So. So. I got my goggles on, my really cool apron on, and I open the cabinets and get out some ethanol and the smells-like-English-sausage acid I mentioned earlier. Dude, are you getting ticked again? Calm down. Didn't know how else to describe it at the moment. But yeah. Butyric acid. Smells really bad.

Knowing you and your Shakespeare and your sonnet sixty-something, I guess you probably figured out where I'm going with this.

I know. I could have thought of a better analogy. But fuck the pretty stuff. Science is serious business. It's really cool.

Because ethanol and butyric acid seem like, well, chemicals. Just chemicals. Nothing we need to care about.

But wait. Wait for it. It sounds like boring old chem class stuff you do in high school. But it's cool. Always will be. Gets me every time I do it.

Basically, you take a test tube and a few graduated cylinders. Better to be precise because as I just said: Science is a serious business. Pour a little ethanol into one cylinder, just like a shot. Easy. Butyric acid's a bit more complicated. Take the other cylinder and the butyric acid (before you go on about how dense I am to carry open bottles of chemicals around the lab with my pace, let me tell you that I always. close. the lid. I know it may surprise you in some instances. But I do. Believe me.) And I put it under the fume hood. Which is totally not where I put your scones. Nope. No way.

Then I open the lid, pour a little shot in, close the lid, and take it to the table. I also remember to take a couple pipets with me so I can drop the stuff in.

And then all the stuff's down, and I boil the water on the hot plate. And that's when I get thinking.

Because in a moment I'm going to pour the ethanol and acid into test tube. Less of the acid of course, and I'm very careful not to let any of it spill on me. Then into the hot water. To get things going.

And the heat's just there to buffer, though technically speaking buffering actually something different. Sit around, watch, help along. Yet if I touched it I would burn and it would hurt like hell. Not like the heartburn I get after one of my snacks, though. This one's not a healthy burn.

This is when I start thinking about us.

I guess most people would say (at least I've heard) we're not the most conducive beings to their needs. I'm loud and demanding, you're demanding and whiny. You fuss and act like you like being alone, and I will admit that I sometimes act like a kid.

But only when necessary.

Though it's like the crazy shit I'm soon putting in drop by drop into the test tubes. Ethanol. Tastes like shit (by itself). Butyric acid. Smells like shit (like your sausages). Ethanol's more tolerable though.

I haven't figured out which one of us is ethanol, exactly. Or rather, which one's the butyric acid.

Because sometimes I think it's you. Especially when I'm working my ass off trying to do what the boss wants me and all you can do is bitch at me about everything I'm doing right now, before, way before, and what I'm going to fuck up in the future. And I really don't need to hear it when dozens of other shits are saying the exact same thing.

Except it hurts more when I hear it from you. Sometimes you just can't get over things. Things that have been done and over with eons ago. I know that eons to you may be different because you've been around longer, but it's way too long ago for me to want to give a shit. And that's when I like to think you're rotten and bitter from always being such a loser.

But then I think that maybe I'm the rotten one. Poking an old dog when it's dead. Bothering you all the time when you just want to be alone, but not caring because I'm so… selfish. I need you with me constantly and I need to be with you constantly and you're constantly putting up with every cracked-up scheme I start and take more of the blame when you need to. Makes me feel like a dirty rotten kid. Really does.

Yeah. Maybe it's me. Probably is, anyway. Usually is, now that I think about it.

It is me.

In which case, I'm sorry I'm not old enough to understand anything.

I'm sorry I don't listen to you enough.

I'm sorry I was so horrible before. And that I might be now.

I'm sorry I don't leave you alone in the first place and that I'm so needy and bratty and that I always act like a toddler.

I'm sorry your cooking sucks.

…

I'm sorry I'm always making fun of you. And your cooking.

At least let me finish first.

Anyway. I dip the test tube into the hot water and let it heat for a bit.

Things like these take time, and you and I both know it.

Time's up. I take the tube out, and exactly twenty drops of pure water. Cleans it all up.

Shake it a little. Let things move around for a bit and settle somewhere new.

Then I wave my hand back and forth over the tube, not caring that the little beads of melted air are running down my hair.

Some would say it's too artificial, but I think it's fucking beautiful.

It's the sweet smell of strawberries. I like to think it's the dew-covered little berries we pick together sometimes on summer mornings, after you've had your tea and me my good cup of Arabica. I know I can't actually eat what's in the test tube. But I still imagine smiling at you and putting one of those fresh strawberries into my mouth. We're always sitting outside in your dainty little lawn chairs and looking over fields upon fields of strawberries.

Then I get to thinking.

Together, some say it's just a ploy. Doing things for the sake of things, us.

But I think you and I are fucking beautiful together.

And when I set down the test tube on a rack and start cleaning everything up, I look at the window in my slightly messier lab and pretend I'm looking at those strawberry fields.

Yeah. Strawberry fields forever, like they say.

Did I mention that I really love science?

Because I do. And I've mentioned it too many times to count.

But this time I'm telling you why.


End file.
